Gently closer winter creeps down the mountain peaks to chase the sun away and, eachevening, dusk is quicker in its fall thanthe last and in this fading, precious light,I sit between these old, hallowed halls to stareunseeing into these soulless eyes ofWhitman as he writes of grass and leavesso eloquently, here I watch and try to learn.

My campus has a statue of Walt Whitman writing and his eyes are just holes, so yeah, that was the inspiration.